Airplanes
by sherlockdrinkstea
Summary: Four times when Neal and Peter caught a plane together. And one time Neal flew alone... This is a four and one story with a bit of whump, a healthy dash of danger and lots of friendship! Told in the first person, for a change. Hope you enjoy!


"Peter." I knew it was bad luck to wake a federal agent when he was sleeping, but I just couldn't resist. "Peter, wake up."

"Whhhuuuu- what?" Peter straightened up in his seat, wincing as his cramped muscles stretched and blinking like an owl in the bright cabin lighting. I watched him steadily for a moment, then offered him a bottle of water. He took it gratefully.

"Thanks, Neal. What's up?"

"We are." I gazed out the window. We were on a commercial flight from JFK to London Gatwick, and were currently cruising over the Atlantic at thirty thousand feet. The plane was gliding over a carpet of clouds, suspended in space, trapped against the roof of the world. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Seriously. Why did you wake me?" His sentence was split by a yawn. "Any developments on the case?" I showed him the leaf of documents I had been annotating whilst he had been snoozing in his chair. Peter knew me too well.

"Yes, actually. You're going to love this." I flicked a strand of chocolate coloured hair out of my eyes and tapped the paper with the nib of my fountain pen. "The jewel thief we've been looking for? I reckon she works in the palace."

"And how'd you figure that out?" I started to answer, but was distracted as a cart of refreshments was wheeled past by an air hostess. Without thinking, I reached out and snatched a cup of coffee off the trolley, used my pickpocketing skills to slide a few coins into the air hostess's purse, then snagged another cup for Peter. He stared at it incredulously.

"What?" I asked. "I paid for it."

"Hmm." The disapproval was clear in his eyes. The air hostess reached our row and stopped, surprised to see that we already had refreshments. I smiled sweetly at her.

"Good evening, Amanda. And how are you tonight?" I asked, after a quick squint at her name tag.

"Fine, thank you." She smiled back brightly in return, looking me up and down, taking in the designer suit that was rumpled after six hours in the air and the explosion of papers that surrounded Peter and I. "Working late, are we?"

"Not much else to do on a plane." I leaned in towards her. "Though I'm sure you could think of something more entertaining." Amanda giggled and continued down the aisle, but not before throwing a packet of complimentary wine gums in my direction. Peter watched the whole exchange with a bemused expression.

"I can't believe that just happened."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I ripped open the wine gums and offered some to the man sitting next to Peter. He declined.

"You make a vague, innuendo derived reference and end up with wine gums? How did that even _happen?" _ I shrugged. Flirting was something Peter would never understand, which was probably why he had a wife and why I hadn't been in a stable relationship for five years. He continued.

"Don't you already _have _a girlfriend?" That gave me pause for thought, and I twisted in my seat to face Peter, all traces of banter gone.

"I'm not really sure where I stand with Sara right now. She completely ignores me every time I ask her out for dinner, but then at the office she's all over me. What do you think?"

"I think that Sara is a better influence than Alex. And you need good influences in your life right now. I think you should sit tight and see how it all plays out."

"Thanks, Peter." I smiled with genuine warmth. There was something oddly reassuring about being with the older man, and I always felt better after receiving his advice. I trusted him, which is probably why we got on so well – even if we did spend most of our time together joking around and attacking each other with mild insults.

* * *

The plane dipped its wings and after an hour we were buzzing low over the city. London really was beautiful. It was late at night, nearly three in the morning, but I wasn't remotely sleepy. Despite feeling like all my muscles had been replaced with chewing gum (an unfortunate side effect of flying commercially across the Atlantic) my brain was waking up and I was able to fully appreciate the glory of England from above.

"Peter, Peter – look at that!" I jostled the agent's arm gently, making him open his eyes and growl at me with irritation. Apparently he wasn't as awake as I was.

"What is it? Christ, Neal, you're like a four year old. Haven't you ever flown to London before?" I chuckled at that. Of course I had, but now wasn't the time to discuss my past adventures (and misadventures.)

"Look at the motorway. All those cars, like fiery ribbons… and those dark spaces? They're fields. This view is much better in the day time, when you can see all the patchwork fields and English hedgerows all laid out beneath you like a postcard."

"That's great." Peter closed his eyes again. "When we get home, you should paint me a pretty picture." I knew he was saying that to make me shut up, so I made a point of nattering away and genuinely being a nuisance. Peter was fun to annoy. When I had been on the run – from him, I might add – I would perform small stunts designed purely to infuriate him. I would send him birthday cards and buy flowers for his wife, which I would personally hand to Elizabeth whilst wearing a variety of different disguises. That had been fun.

Soon the plane came in to land and I yawned languorously, popping my ears with ease. The floor juddered beneath my feet, sending vibrations up through my tracking anklet. The thing tickled my leg to the point where I had to laugh out loud, which drew a quizzical glance from Peter. I smiled at him. He had gone very pale, and I noticed that he was gripping the arms of his seat tightly, his aged fingers twisting into claws. I placed my hand on his shoulder, muttering reassuring words. Peter didn't like flying. After a few, tense minutes, the plane whirred to a halt, Peter relaxed visibly, and the economy section erupted as impatient travellers from JFK leapt to their feet and scrabbled for their belongings.

We were one of the first people to leave the plane. I thanked the air hostess, Amanda, who stood by the door. I bowed slightly in her direction and – I couldn't resist – swept up her hand in my own and kissed it lightly, as if I were a knight of lore and she the lady of the household. We were in England after all, and I had promised Mozzie that I would do that to someone at some stage during the three day trip. Peter shook his head at me, amazed that I could be so intimate with a stranger. I winked at him.

Together, with our hand luggage in tow, we walked down the grey, twisting corridor covered with pictures of the Queen and Big Ben, trying to stay ahead of the rest of the plane. There was nothing I hated more than queuing at border control in the middle of the night.

We turned the corner and pounded down two flights of stairs, our steps unconsciously quickening until we were _running _through the silent airport. I laughed, amused at the absurdity of running witha fed instead of away from one, delighted to have the chance to stretch my legs. We sprinted across a travelator and past a deserted Starbucks until we had to stop and catch our breath.

"That was fun." I grinned at Peter. He smiled back, though he looked a little embarrassed by the childish outburst.

"We never speak of that again." He advised sternly. "We're here for business. To catch a jewel thief."

"Ah, Peter, liven up." I chuckled, pacing through a shiny, NASA inspired corridor with long, measured steps. The green glow from my tracking anklet (which had been reset for the trip abroad) reflected off the floor tiles.

"Yeah. Well, we better hurry. Diana and Jones are meeting us at the hotel."  
"Sounds like a party." Peter examined my face carefully for signs of sarcasm. Apparently finding none, he hefted his hand luggage mightily and powered through a pair of double doors. We had reached the arrivals hall.

* * *

Peter swore when he saw the room. The place was packed, absolutely teeming with at least four plane loads of people waiting to trickle through the border and officially enter the United Kingdom. He rubbed his face dejectedly.

"English people and their queues..." Peter grumbled, as we walked side by side down the stairs before joining the back of the line.

We were halfway to the front when things went seriously pear shaped. I was in the middle of demonstrating to Peter how to pickpocket a security guard (don't ask me why – Peter wanted to know) when she caught my eye. I froze, my heart jack hammering within my chest. Not her. Not now.  
"Neal?" Peter had noticed the panic light up my eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Peter…" But before I could explain, she was shouting across the room.

"Jonathon! Hey, Jonathon!" I swore and ducked my head. The person shouting was Melissa Jones, a border control official who I had met a few years ago. We had been… _friends._ If that was the correct terminology to describe our relationship. Peter looked at me with amusement dancing on his features.

"Who's Jonathon?" He asked, conspiratorially. I sighed through gritted teeth.  
"Me. I'm Jonathon."  
"Ah." Peter rocked back on his heels. He was wearing his _this is gonna be good _face. I groaned.

"Look, Peter, it was years ago. Melissa and I…" I nodded back to the border control official. "We had a… good time together."  
"I see." Peter was obviously struggling not to laugh. I ignored him. This was more serious than he thought. This was very serious. _Prison _serious. My mind flashed back to that time a few years back, when I had last been in London on an art heist. Ours had been a whirlwind romance. Melissa had caught my eye from across the room, her red hair a beacon in the drab customs hall. We had exchanged flirtatious glances, a few nods, a few, purpose-built smiles. Then I had sidled into the line that led to her border control cubicle and had waited patiently as the queue of people in front of me was gradually processed. Then we had been face to face.

"Hey there." She had said coyly.  
"Good morning." I replied in turn, voice husky and thick with a false Scottish accent. I remembered how the first hint of stubble on my cheeks had tickled that day, how she had been drawn to it like a moth to flame. Melissa – the buxom girl from Manchester with the sharp, white teeth. Within minutes I was inside her cubicle, my forged passport with the fictitious name "Jonathon Churchill" safely stamped and in my pocket.

You don't need me to tell you what happened next. But that wasn't the bad part. That wasn't the _prison_ part. Melissa had had a row of stamps littering her desk, red ink and plastic shapes. Those official passport stamps could grant entrance to the United Kingdom... And truth be told, just _thinking _about what a white collar criminal like myself could do with those stamps gave me the shivers. I remember I had been sorely tempted to steal them. The desire had been overwhelming. (Which is probably why, in the end, and after much deliberation, I did indeed steal the stamps.)

Looking glumly back on the time made fear flood my veins. Peter and I were standing in the line that, once again, led to Melissa. What were the chances of that? I had to be one of the unluckiest men alive. Even so, I clamped down on the fear before it could show on my face.

"Peter," I said, leaning in close to the older man.

"Yes, Jonathon?" He asked, trying hard to keep a straight face. I shot him an irritated look.

"Seriously, Peter, now is not the time. I'm not sure what's going to happen right now, but I need you to-" I broke off as the family in front of us passed through the border control gates. We were next. I cursed softly in Latin. Trying to ignore Peter's smirk, I hurriedly brushed down my suit. The shirt was rumpled after the long flight, my hair was in a state of disarray, and my tie – God have mercy, the thing was _crooked_. And it did _not _want to align properly with my shirt buttons. I looked more like a tired federal agent than a charming conman, which, in the current situation, wasn't a good thing.

Taking a deep breath and tidying up my appearance as best I could, I followed Peter and together, we walked up to Melissa's desk.

"Hey, Jonathon." She said, smiling brightly. I heaved a sigh of relief. She wasn't angry! She wasn't calling security! Maybe she hadn't linked the theft of the official stamps to me after all. That was a kindness, but there was still the minor issue of the forged passport to deal with. And the fact that my name wasn't actually Jonathon.

"Hey, Melissa." I kept my voice calm and controlled. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Peter smiling broadly. He wanted to see how this played out. I could tell that I wasn't going to get any help from him. Typical fed – never there when you need them. Melissa was watching me carefully. She seemed embarrassed, probably because I was travelling with Peter, which made having a private conversation difficult.

"May I see your passport, please?" She asked, after a pause. Wincing, I handed mine to her, our hands meeting fleetingly as I slid the booklet through the glass. Electricity sparked from my skin. I could tell this wasn't going to end well. There was a beat of silence whilst she examined it. Her eyes narrowed. "This doesn't say Jonathon Churchill." She snapped, suddenly accusing. I swallowed, mouth dry, and leaned in towards her, my voice steady and placating.

"Melissa, please, I can explain."

"Security!" Melissa shouted, before vigorously pressing a button under her desk. I groaned inwardly.

"Melissa, my friend over there-" I shot a desperate glance back at Peter, who was watching the proceedings with interest, "He's an FBI Agent. He can explain everything."  
"Really, Jonathon? He can explain _everything_? Like the stamps that went missing from my office two years ago, making it impossible for me to ever get a promotion? Did you have something to do with that? Because I seem to remember you being there." _Ah_. I was so screwed. "Is your name even Jonathon?" Melissa's voice was rising in pitch. I moved towards her, trying to calm her down. She backed away. Every eye in the room was on us now. Four security guards were rapidly approaching. "Or is it Neal Caffrey?" I smiled bitterly as her words washed over me.

"My name…" I hesitated. Identity was something I always struggled with, but for whatever reason, I decided to take the plunge. "Is Neal George Caffrey. I'm a confidential informant for the FBI-"

"So the passport you showed me two years ago was a forgery?"

"Melissa-"

Peter was openly laughing now, and I supposed that he did have point. This trip was going to be boring, but I suppose you could count on me to spice things up. From his point of view, my being arrested before we even officially _entered _the country was probably hilarious. I sighed as I pictured the reaction this would spark from Jones and Diana. They would never let this go.

"Miss, is there a problem here?" The security guards had arrived. Melissa smiled victoriously and glanced in my direction. She looked relieved and apologetic, all at the same time.

"Yes, Officer. I have reason to believe that this man has a false passport in his possession and is a thief besides." I had been arrested numerous times in my life, and this was the stage where I always wondered if I should run. Like always, I decided not to. It was only polite.

"Sir." I turned on the charm and toned down my American accent, going for pleasing with the slightest tint of Cockney, so that my voice matched that of the security guard's. People tend to trust those who come from similar origins. "I can explain…"

"You have the right to remain silent." I shook my head, annoyed, and twisted round whilst the security guard secured my hands behind my back. The click of cuffs was familiar and definitely unwelcome. I was facing Peter for a few seconds. He stopped laughing long enough to shoot me a reassuring look and to mouth the words _I'll sort this out. _I appreciated the effort. Peter was always on my side. But that didn't stop him from seeing the funny half of things, and when I was turned back around I could still hear him chuckling.

"It was a pleasure meeting you again, Melissa." I said wearily. She nodded brusquely in my direction. Then I was marched out of the now silent arrivals hall and into the bowels of the airport, Peter following close behind.

Amazing how business trips always seemed to go awry when a conman worked with a FBI agent.

* * *

**Hey guys, this is my first four and one story, so hope you enjoyed the first installment. I would love to hear your comments :)**


End file.
